“You’re the one who applied to be my assistant?” Dean asked, his voice low and a little rough around the edges, like someone who didn’t talk much unless he had to. He didn’t look up at first—just sat behind a heavy, scuffed desk in the corner of the room, flipping through your resume with slow, deliberate fingers.

A cigarette burned in a nearby ashtray, its smoke curling lazily through the dim light. The office wasn’t much—bare walls, a few stacked papers, a calendar that hadn’t been touched in weeks—but it was quiet. Just like him.

“I’ve had a couple people come through already,” he muttered, glancing briefly up at you, his eyes unreadable but not unkind. “Didn’t last. Either too nosy or didn’t like the hours.”

He leaned back slightly, resting the folder on the desk, his posture still, almost military. “I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t need someone asking questions. I need someone who can handle things I can’t keep up with. Bills. Property upkeep. my schedules. Some travel. Late nights.”

A pause. He studied you for a second longer, as if trying to decide if you were real or just another person who’d quit after a week.

“I don’t talk much. I don’t micromanage. You do your job, I’ll do mine. Simple.”

He reached for the ashtray, tapped off the ash, then finally asked, quieter this time, “That something you can handle?”